


Day 15: Scars

by Drvivc (Fight_Surrender)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [9]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Baz dietary needs, But she loves Simon, Comfort/Angst, Depressed Simon Snow, Gen, M/M, POV Penelope Bunce, Penny doesn't like dogs, Post Wayward Son, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Simon Snow-PTSD, Simon gets a dog, Sorry Not Sorry, Therapy Dog, Whumptober 2019, but not that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Drvivc
Summary: “You flew me across the world in an attempt to fix me and almost got us all killed. How about we try something that might actually work?”- Simon and Penny go to the animal shelter in search for someone to help heal his pain.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538212
Comments: 5
Kudos: 76





	Day 15: Scars

**Penny**

I can’t believe we’re doing this. This is the worst decision we’ve ever made. Aside from going to America. _ That _ was the worst decision we’ve ever made. This is the second worst.

This decision will shit on our carpet and chew up our furniture.

I can’t believe I let Simon talk me into this. He read an article on the plane trip home about canine companions for veterans to help with PTSD and reintegration.

“You flew me across the world in an attempt to fix me and almost got us all killed. How about we try something that might actually work?” Simon said from his resumed home base on the sofa.

How the fuck am I supposed to argue with that?

So here we are at the animal shelter looking at dogs.

Simon let me spell his wings away for the occasion. Baz opted to stay home. I think he’s still feeling a bit guilty about all the dogs and cats that met their demise in America on account of his dietary needs.

“Dogs are considered livestock in certain countries,” I said, trying to help.

“I don’t visit cows at the farm either, Bunce,” he retorted.

They call Simon’s name and usher us to the kennel area to look at the dogs. It’s a cacophony in here. Dogs are barking, leaping on fences and cage bars. It smells exactly like you’d expect a room full of stray dogs to smell. I breathe through my mouth. I wonder if I’m allergic to dogs. I don’t even like dogs.

I don’t like dogs, but I love Simon.

So here we are.

I hang back and let Simon slowly walk through the kennel on his own. He’s talking to the dogs as he passes them, laughing at some of their attempts for his attention. He’s smiling. I’ve seen a few more of those smiles lately, but they’re still scarce enough to be jarring when they appear. 

Simon pauses in front of an empty cage.

I catch up to him and peer inside. The cage isn’t empty. There’s a large black and white dog in the back. Well, there are areas of black and white fur. There are also angry red scars along his back and thighs. There is a large incision on his left shoulder, closed with a multitude of staples.

“Alright there, pup?” Simon says softly.

The dog wags his tail once. Then he stands up slowly and hobbles over to Simon. His left front leg is missing.

“That’s the most life I’ve seen out of that dog since he got here. He’s been completely shut down,” said a staff member, walking by. “Abused, that one,” she continues, “badly broke his leg jumping from a balcony to escape, no choice but to amputate. Those are burns on ‘is back from the previous owner. We’ve filed charges, but this dog is running out of time here. Nobody wants a disfigured hound.”

Simon nods and puts his fingers through the cage bars. The dog sniffs Simon, wags his tail slowly, and presses closer. He positions his face so Simon can scratch under his ear. After a moment, the dog seems to tire and awkwardly assumes a sitting position. He licks Simon’s hand then slides to lay down on the cage floor. Simon squats to the ground, as the dog presses his head to the bars so Simon can continue to scratch. Tears are streaming down his face.

“This,” he clears his throat. “This one.”

“This is my dog.”

Now I’m crying too.


End file.
